The Warden Remembers
by KatDancer2
Summary: What else is there to do, in the quiet hours before the dawn? Each chapter is written from the perspective of a different character, considering their relationship with the Wardens.
1. She Remembered

She remembered.

She remembered the first time they had met. All that remained to her was her name, and a sword and shield that she could not use and would properly belong to her brother, anyway, if he still lived. Her name meant an Oath from the Maker, and by the Maker, she meant to keep hers. All she was was duty and sorrow, daggers and leather armor, and somehow, despite it all, he had made her laugh.

She had never thought she could laugh again. Not ever.

His name was a good one: Alistair. It meant Defender of the People. It suited him perfectly, she was soon to learn. He was big and strong, and it didn't hurt that he was handsome, too. She had thought he would be as confident in his quiet moments as he was on the field – but there was something gentle, and something that felt uncertain, as if he thought himself unworthy. She could not understand why.

She remembered the relief and joy on his face when he saw for himself that she'd survived the disaster at Ostagar – that he wouldn't be left alone. He feared that above even the loss of his own life, and it made something in her ache to see what his life must have been – isolation. Loss. Her recent life was so, but she'd grown with a family who loved her, supported her, and encouraged her. They'd made her strong and confident. He was physically strong – but afraid to lose any more. And when he'd finally been able to see past his own loss, he was shamed to see she had been shouldering his emotional burdens along with her own without ever a complaint.

He'd shouldered her burdens too.

She remembered the talks by the fireside. His jokes, when she got too close. Even his irritation. "Poke, poke, poke! Tell me all about your life, Alistair!" he'd once grumbled. But she had a gift for listening, for drawing people out, and she very much wanted to understand this man – the man who stood beside her. She didn't care that she had been a noble and he had been a stableboy… a certain Arl had taught her all too well that bloodlines and so-called nobility were nothing more than words. Being reliable. Honorable. Compassionate. These were things that were asked of the nobility, but some failed at it horribly. And some stable boys turned knights had more of it in their carefully mussed hair than she had ever known.

She remembered the first night she'd slept, after Ostagar – the nightmares that had her sit bolt upright, drenched with sweat, shaking with fear and disorientation, a shriek strangling her as she clenched her teeth around it, desperate not to draw ITS attention again… and he was there, speaking softly, telling her the bad news – that this would be a normal nights' sleep for her until she could learn to block it out. That he'd been just as frightened. And unsaid, that it would be all right, she'd master it. That he'd be there for her when she woke.

She knew that after Ostagar, they were bonded together – comrades in arms? Best friends? She knew it must be because they depended on each other so much – for survival, certainly – but also for the one constant, the one rock they could cling to in the chaos. She was always there, slipping around the battlefield like a ghost, her speed and daggers whittling down the numbers from the sides and back of the pack – he was always there, pounding on the biggest foe, drawing the attention of the Darkspawn and letting her take the enemy unaware.

And there were times when she was overborne, flung to the ground, and saw her death in the eyes of some loathsome creature as it tried to end her, and then there would be a roar, and the ungodly smash of metal against bone, and his bloody shield would have flung aside like a broken toy whatever had threatened. And there were times when HE was dashed to the ground, dizzy with a blow, and she used her acrobatics to wheel across the battlefield, to launch herself through the air and kill his attacker – blade through the eye, slit throat, a sharp twist of the neck – and then she'd land, mere feet from him, and their eyes would meet – just for an instant – and no matter how exhausted, how pained, they were up on their feet again, back to back, fighting.

She remembered all that as he stood before her, shuffling shyly, as he pulled out from behind his back… a rose. One perfect, beautiful red rose.

As a very eligible and unmarried noblewoman, she had received all kinds of gifts from would-be suitors, and more flowers than could fill a greenhouse. But this _one_ flower, handed to her by Alistair, meant more to her than if it had been fashioned of rubies and emeralds. He hadn't had gardeners tend it until it was ready to be cut, or florists to arrange a beautiful bouquet. He'd cut it with his own dagger, by his own hand, just for her.

It would be easy to make jokes about it, to let them both pretend that this wasn't anything important, that he wasn't offering her his heart. Equally as easy to pretend she wasn't breathless with the knowledge that there was _someone_ left in the world who cared for her, and that _her_ heart wasn't bursting with joy that this aching longing she felt was not unrequited.

"It's beautiful," she had said quietly, her eyes filling with happy tears, and she had stepped into his arms, leaning her cheek against his splintmail, hugging him tightly. She felt his arms come around her slowly, as if he were afraid to break her, and felt his cheek against the top of her head.

And had never felt more as if she were right where she belonged.


	2. He Remembered

He remembered.

He remembered the first time he saw her, her dark auburn hair catching the sun as she trudged up that ramp into the temple at Ostagar, and how it had seemed to glow with the colors of sunset as she edged around him and the mage, her curious green eyes on the chest against the wall.

He remembered the teasing smile that curved her lips as he stammered through a series of frankly ridiculous statements, nervous about this recruit who carried herself like a queen although there was nothing haughty about her.

He remembered her eyes. Large, clear, and a deep emerald green that went well with her warm, red-brown hair. How they took in everything around her in a swift, practiced sweep that bespoke years of fighting and hunting… how they lingered on his face.

How sad they looked, really. When she was joking back gently, and teasing him, it was very friendly – not the disdain he'd come to expect – but there was something very vulnerable there if you knew where to look for it.

He knew where to look. He'd seen it in his own reflection every day of his adult life.

He remembered how she'd introduced herself – simply, extending a hand to shake his. How polite she was. How sincere. And how she fell in beside him, gently questioning him about himself, and about the Wardens, and the war… and considering everything thoughtfully, seriously.

He remembered how she moved through the camp, stopping here and there to chat with people – finding out with a few words and a smile who they were, what they were doing – realizing that on some very profound level she was lost and trying to define where she fit into this all.

Or perhaps _redefine_ her place in the world.

He remembered her in the Kokari Wilds – confident, sharp-eyed. How her arrows started dropping the wolf pack even before they'd made it to the little outcropping they stood on. How she'd not flinched away from fighting the darkspawn, hurling herself past a Hurlock Alpha and stabbing him in both kidneys with her wicked daggers from behind. How without a word, Daveth and Jory – and he, as well, to be honest – had deferred to her, let her lead them as she read the forest as if she were half-wild herself.

He remembered Jory studying her, then bursting out into excited stammers, calling her My Lady… and how she'd shook her head and said quietly, "Please. It's just Elissa now."

He remembered her stepping forward to speak with the swamp witch – her manners polite and cool, as if she were speaking with some ambassador – while he and Daveth and Jory frankly acted like frightened children – and how it was she who dealt with Flemeth as well – very correct, very polite, as if one treated the lowliest stableboy as well as the King with precisely the same deference and warmth.

He remembered she'd gotten what they came for, and gotten them out of there safely.

He remembered her Joining – a horrific one. Daveth had died nearly at her feet, and he'd seen fear and sorrow in her eyes. And then Jory… attacking Duncan… Duncan slaying him before her… the horror in her eyes….

And then being handed the cup herself.

She had looked at Daveth one last time, her skin gone a horrid shade of grey, and looked at Duncan, still covered in Jory's blood. Those eyes… they'd drifted shut as she stood, trembling. He remembered as she lifted the cup in both hands how she'd murmured quietly, "A Cousland always does their duty," and drunk, without further hesitation. Drunk deeply.

He remembered how it had all gone so horribly wrong, how she and her dog, he, the mage and the guardsman had had to slaughter their way to the top of the Tower of Ishal. How faced with the Ogre, she'd frozen in terror for perhaps a second or two… then threw herself towards it, managing to throw herself feet first into a slide between its legs as it charged their group. How as he'd drawn its attention, yelling and banging his sword on his own shield, she'd slashed at its inner thighs as she went, crippling the creature. How, bone weary, she'd just managed to get out of its way when he'd leaped atop the stumbling Ogre and driven his sword into its brain.

How she'd tossed an incendiary flask into the beacon fire.

How she'd screamed in rage and denial as she saw half the army – Loghain's half – quit the field rather than flank the darkspawn.

How she'd gone down in a hail of darkspawn arrows.

He remembered the utter joy of seeing her emerge from Flemeth's hut days later, knowing he was not the last Grey Warden in Ferelden.

He remembered how she'd stepped back into the role of leader without complaint, and talked with him… always talking, drawing him out, drawing the poison of his pain at having lost the only family that mattered to him.

He remembered when he'd asked her if she'd lost anyone close to her… and the tears that had slid down her face, all the more frightening because she wasn't shuddering and sobbing. How she looked at him, tightly controlled, and told him who she had been.

She had lost everything – _everything_ – just days before. Family. A title. A future. Her innocence. Aside from the Theirins, the Couslands were the most highly ranked nobles in Ferelden.

Now they were all rotting with their throats slit in an unmarked grave. Except for Elissa… who as a Grey Warden had no title, no family other than the Wardens, now. Of which there was… one other.

And _he_ was mired in sorrow because he'd lost Duncan. It made him feel very small… and yet she'd embraced him and reassured HIM.

He remembered asking her if there was anywhere she considered home, and the hesitant pause before she answered.

Home was with him.

That had about knocked him to his knees, and when he looked at her to make sure she wasn't suddenly mocking him, he saw it in her eyes. Utter sincerity. _He_ was her _home_.

And when he'd presented her with that rose… such a little thing, really… and knowing who she'd been, such a… a modest thing as well… well… he'd worried that she would think it silly. Unworthy of her.

And yet she'd treated it, and his heart, as if they were the most precious treasures in all Thedas.


	3. Loghain Remembers

I remember that when Maric's bastard and that ragtag collection of misfits set foot on the blue and gold carpeting of the Throne Room floor at the Landsmeet, I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry – that Eamon was so desperate for power that he'd put his trust in… this. The last two Grey Wardens, too pathetic to have gotten themselves killed with their betters, a Circle Mage, an apostate, a drunken dwarf, the assassin Howe had hired to kill them, one of the Qunari, a redheaded Orlesian bard, and a strangely familiar golem.

And at their head, cool-eyed and confident… Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. I'd known the girl at six years of age, who'd checked her game of tag with her elder brother to drop a gravely polite curtsey to me when her father called her over. She'd stood beside him, clear green eyes looking up at me much the way they were meeting mine now, and said very daintily that it was a pleasure to meet the Hero of the River Dane. That she was most honored to have met me. That she regretted it was time for her bath, and that shed hope to meet me again.

When I had met her again at Ostagar, I had been very brief with her, telling her that I knew Cailan intended to bring Howe to justice, while knowing that would _never_ happen. The girl's eyes were dark with grief, although to her credit she did not allow herself the luxury of tears and emotion. I respected her – even if her father were toadying for the Orlesians. From all I'd heard, _she_ was a good Ferelden girl, and no doubt would be a magnificent knight, were that her fate. She'd been polite and correct, wished me well, and let me get back to my planning. In her eyes, for an instant – a look confidence, of trust. That the Hero of the River Dane would prevail, and pull us all through this madness.

Would that that had been true.

It was mostly Howe who tried to destroy her. I did not know of Highever until she came to Ostagar; I was unaware of many of the attempts that had been made on her life, outside of the Crow. I should have known – I knew the kind of viper Howe was – how could I not? But I cannot let the blame rest with him alone. Ultimately, I was responsible, and nothing brought that notion home clearer than when I agreed to let the assassin after her.

Agreement. Approval. And in that act, I took responsibility for _every_ vicious, stupid attempt that Howe had been making on her over the past year. Had I objected, I have no doubt Howe would have proceeded anyway; but I gave my approval and so became complicit in the murders of the Couslands.

And in so doing, I made a fatal mistake.

The very thing that made me fight like a demon against the Orlesians, and win Ferelden free of them, was the righteous rage of a boy who watched Orlesian soldiers rape and murder his mother in collection of _a tax debt_. That simple act, defiling and murdering my mother, has driven me for forty years or more – and in Elissa Cousland's eyes I saw the same righteous rage – parents dead, sister-in-law dead, young nephew, dead… every servant and serf in the castle, dead.

When she coolly offered to duel me herself, I should have remembered that rather than thinking of her inexperience and believing that I could beat her easily. To slay her would be a mercy – to send her to her family in the Fade – and then we could get on with the business of disposing of Maric's bastard, uniting Ferelden, and ending the Blight.

Unlike Cailan, she had not been raised solely on stories and with privilege. She had been well trained with the blessings of father and mother both – for they had fought in the occupation to help win Ferelden free of Orlais. They were of a mind that it wasn't necessary, but best to be prepared should the worst come to the worst.

And thank the Maker they had. Their little spitfire had assessed me calmly as we circled each other, and more and more I respected her and hated the only outcome – that she should lie dead before me, and the blue carpet would need replacing.

That didn't happen.

The girl was fast and accurate, and it seemed like the Maker himself guided her against me. She struck hard and fast, and scored against the weak points in my armor with every blow. There were a dozen passes between us, and with each one we learned more about the other. What I learned was disquieting – this was no child playing at war. This was a fury, vengeance personified – and I knew I had no defense from that.

And then – I am not sure what she did, exactly, but she got in under my guard, too close, and as I stepped back to get room to kill her, she'd flung her arm up into my face, the pommel of – Maric's blade, I finally realized, as I slammed to the ground – Maric's blade, smashing up against the side of my jaw, and another blade, mismatched from the first, at my throat.

Yet there was no hunger, no fierce joy in my defeat – only steady calm, and a touch of regret. And the relief in her eyes when I yielded – because I had misread her again. She was not standing over my bruised and beaten body, glorying in being able to finally strike SOMETHING dead for taking her world and life away.

She was standing there as _Ferelden_… and for Ferelden's sake, she would end this civil war and Blight, doing whatever was necessary to accomplish that. What magnificent allies we would have been had I but known that was her goal, that was her agenda: save Ferelden.

As it has ever been my goal.


	4. The Dwarf Remembered

He remembered.

He remembered, even though he had spent most of his adult life in a constant state of drunkenness, trying to forget.

He remembered the Cloud-heads strolling into Tapsters and how strange they looked there – humans, mostly – and an elf, and a Qunari of all things, and a gigantic wardog. In the best of times, few outsiders came to Orzammar. In the wake of King Endrin's death and civil war, NONE of them belonged there. Yet here they were, as if they belonged there.

He remembered how beautiful their leader was, with her dark auburn hair and those amazing emerald eyes. She looked like she could get knocked over by single deep stalker, as tall and thin as she was. And he'd been amazed at how the others followed her, deferred to her – there must be something special about her, though he couldn't see what, other than her startling, attenuated beauty.

He remembered their leader spoke to him, and when she realized that he was MARRIED to Branka, how her face had gone soft with concern. That had pissed him off, to be honest, and he spurned her offer of help as insincere. She still spoke to him gently, though – as if finding the Paragon WASN'T more important than helping him. That was odd – a very non-Dwarva point of view, to be honest.

He'd been at the Proving, where their leader, Elissa, had looked like easy prey to their best dwarven fighters. And he'd seen how agile she was, spinning and kicking, punching and throwing, leaping and dodging – her longer reach and faster speed leaving rogues and warriors alike spitting dirt, teeth and blood. And she knew about honor: rather than depend on her own people to back her in the melees, she had chosen Gwiddon and Baizyl, Harrowmont's champions and led them to a victory so decisive it could only be seen as the Ancestors' favor for Harrowmont and his bid for King.

He remembered the moment when he stood before her at the entrance to the mines, blustering about how she needed him when the truth was, he needed HER to find Branka, and they both knew it.

He remembered how in the end, when they'd found Branka, Elissa had refused to help the mad Paragon secure the Anvil of the Void – how she'd helped the Paragon-Golem Caridin destroy the Anvil rather than condemn a single new living soul to becoming a golem – a possession.

And recognizing that above all, she was right, and Branka was mad and would kill them all before she stopped… he'd killed his smith-Paragon wife – the one who had taken his entire house into the Deep Roads and fed them to the darkspawn one by one after she'd left him to become a laughingstock at home.

He remembered how Elissa had accepted him into their group and taken him from Orzammar – knowing there was nothing for him here anymore. How she'd stood patiently with him as he trembled outside in the sun for the first time, and said nothing while the fear of all that brightness and openness tore at him…

How she'd simply reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. Such a simple thing to do – so comforting. So wonderfully subtle, so the rest of her crew didn't realize he was about to piss himself in terror before she reassured him.

He remembered how she'd walked with him far from the confines of the fire, and how she'd listened to all his bluster, simply nodding and accepting. He remembered how she'd drunk with him, and how really, the liquor was far too strong for her, but she'd done it anyway. He remembered that when he'd started to cry, a weak, stupid and unwarrior-like thing to do, she'd just held him and kissed him on the forehead. And that was _with_ him smelling of desperation, sick, and piss – as her fellow Warden had once commented.

He remembered she had nearly taken the Templar's head off for that, and said something that REALLY made him want to cry: "What makes you think any of _us_ are any better? What makes you think _I'm_ not half a thought from falling into the bottom of a bottle and never finding my way back out?"

He remembered how when he told her he wanted to go find Felsi, not only had she not laughed at him – she'd made time to go immediately AND helped him convince the girl to give him another whirl.

He remembered coming across her in the woods late at night when she should have been asleep, and seeing her silent, miserable sobs.

And he'd gone to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder, and kissed her on her fiery hair. The look she'd given him was pretty watery, but there was also recognition that yes, he knew what it was to lose everyone and yes, they'd make it through this together.


	5. The First Love Remembered

He remembered.

He remembered her at seven, running in the sunlit meadow, her dark auburn hair untamably messy and straggling from its braids, green eyes dancing and her knees scabbed over. And she didn't care.

He remembered the hurt in her eyes when he and Fergus told her to stop following them – she was just a girl, and not welcome to join their hunt. She hadn't said anything, just swallowed and stood there, frozen, disappointment all over her face. She'd fixed them both with a hard look, and turned around to head slowly back to Vigil's Keep. It was after she was perhaps fifteen or twenty yards away that he'd heard the choked sob and as he turned to look in surprise and guilt, she'd burst into a run, head down and wiping the back of her wrist across her eyes.

He remembered the next year, when she played dolls sitting on the floor in the solar with Delilah, but clearly her heart wasn't in it. She kept glancing at him and Fergus hunched over the chessboard, with Fergus beating him soundly. She inched her way closer and closer until there was no point pretending that she was interested in pretending to feed and change an infant doll. He remembered how she'd studied the board carefully, saying nothing, until he'd felt unaccountably annoyed and invited her to take over if she thought she could do better than he.

Delilah had stood beside them too, quietly watching, as Elissa picked up her chevalier and moved it, eliciting a groan from Fergus.

In the next five moves, she'd beaten Fergus. And while Teyrn Cousland chuckled, his own father had fixed him with a poisonous glare.

He remembered her at eleven, walking out to the practice field, her own glove, armguard, and quiver strapped on, and carrying her bow… how she'd strung it deftly despite his offer to help. She'd been surprisingly good – their contest was close, and he'd won by the matter of a point. She'd congratulated him and shook his hand, and said that next time, she'd be better.

He had no doubt she would be.

He remembered her at sixteen, at the Royal Ball. Maker, those auburn waves of silken hair, tumbling fetchingly around her shoulders, and those gorgeous green eyes, wide with worry and wonder. She hadn't been danced with yet – he couldn't tell if it was because his fellows were shy of her father's power and position, or jealous of it. And so he had stepped forward.

The look in her eyes had been guarded and wary – as if fearing some joke at her expense. He'd bowed, very formally but correctly for her rank in the nobility, and as he straightened, inclined his head at her and held out his hand with a wink. A brilliant smile had transformed her face, and she placed her right hand in his left without hesitation. As he had wavered, she took his right hand and drew it around her waist, beaming into his startled face as he found himself with a beautiful girl in his arms. As the music started, he hesitated, and she murmured into his ear that if he were leading, he'd best get to it or _she'd_ do it. She laughed merrily as he swept her into the waltz.

He remembered how fast his heart had beat, and how perfectly they had moved together, her left hand on his should, in step with him… her eyes gleaming into his, and her beautiful smile.

He remembered later, in the garden, when he'd stolen a kiss… and she'd stood on tiptoe, her hands on his chest, to steal it back.

He remembered other dances, other gardens, other kisses… fumbling in the dark… and the line, clearly drawn, which neither of them crossed but skirted alongside, knowing their duty as well as they knew their own heartbeats.

He remembered Thomas' gloating look, and the way he scrambled off to tattle… And he remembered being sent off to the Free Marches to squire, immediately, without a chance to even say goodbye.


	6. The Traitor's Son Remembered

He remembered.

He remembered hearing that the darkspawn were rising, and Ferelden was meeting them on the battlefield.

He remembered the day Ser Ell had called him aside, with a face full of worry, to tell him that his king was dead and that good men like his father and Teyrn Loghain were rallying the country to beat back both darkspawn and Orlesians.

He remembered hearing that the Grey Wardens had treacherously lured King Cailan to his death, and that but two outlaws were left roaming the countryside, fomenting rebellion.

He remembered his father writing about the Couslands' betrayal, and how they had been plotting with Orlais to invade during the chaos. He didn't want to believe it – Bryce Cousland had been a beloved uncle to him, Eleanor Cousland had been a mother to Delilah after their own mother passed…. Fergus was more his brother than Thomas had ever been and Elissa….

He'd remembered the brilliant smile, the breathless kisses, the promises of always, and someday, and forever, and the Couslands' smiles of approval… and he'd locked himself away, drank, and cried.

To know they were all dead and that Highever was now his father's teyrnir… the conflicting emotions made his heart break. The pride in knowing his father had finally achieved what he'd always wished for and deserved – retaking Highever – was overshadowed by his grief and disbelief that his second family , heroes of the Occupation! - could have plotted against Cailan and Ferelden.

He remembered hearing that the bannorn was in rebellion, and that civil war was tearing Ferelden apart… that the two Grey Warden traitors had amassed the dwarves, the elves, the mages and of all people, that fool Eamon Guerrin behind them!

He remembered, very clearly, the letter that had come to him in Teyrn Loghain's own hand, bluntly sending regrets and informing him that one of the Grey Warden traitors was indeed Elissa Cousland – his Elissa alive! – and that she had murdered his father in cold blood in their new estate of the Arling of Denerim.

He remembered taking ship immediately, and arriving in Ferelden to find a previously unknown bastard of Maric's on the throne, and married, unhappily, to Queen Anora, and Loghain conscripted as one of the traitorous Grey Wardens. All arranged – by _her_.

He remembered coming home after the civil war… finding that his name was soiled, his brother dead, his sister missing and his home filled with Wardens… **_Orlesian_** Wardens. And that Fergus Cousland was Teryn of Highever, and Elissa Cousland touted as the Hero of Ferelden, the Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Commander of the Grey. And the reason for all this – the reason he was alone in the world – was _her_.

He remembered using his assassin's training and sneaking back into Vigil's Keep, knowing she was on her way. He considered killing her, but what would be the point of that? It would not bring his father or his honor back. And he didn't want to think about – couldn't imagine – watching the light in her eyes go out as he murdered her. So instead, he was caught as he tried to gather some family mementoes and steal back away into the night.

He remembered it took _four_ _Wardens_ to beat him into submission and to drag him to the dungeons.

He remembered the Darkspawn attack, and how many died while he was trapped in his cell – and how she'd come, surprised, still reeking with blood, to see him. How fitting for a murderer, he had thought. How for an instant, there had been a flash of hope, of love, of joy to see him whole…

He remembered the words that had spilled between them – painful, vicious, hateful as he branded her murderer and she called his father traitor, murderer and worse.

Mostly he remembered the anguish in her eyes as she realized that it was her responsibility as Arlessa to sentence him. She'd asked him what he would do if she let him go, and he told her he might come back sometime to finish the job when he wouldn't be caught. When she observed he wasn't helping his case he'd asked if she wanted him to lie to her.

He'd never lied to her before.

He's thought to force her to hang him, to end his misery – and gambled that if she forced conscription on him he would die as apparently many did. Instead she'd ordered her seneschal – formerly his father's seneschal – to help him gather his things and to have him escorted from the keep.

He remembered coming back, to Join her and to redeem his sullied name.


End file.
